


promised you a rose garden

by Yuki1014o



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Monstergirls, Pining, Romance, the "how can I capture this beauty?" painter trope, y'know the one?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: Iris could have asked her to paint anything into existence, anything at all, and she requestedwings for her sister.It's probably the kindest wish Musica has ever had to paint. She kind of wants to cry. And kind of falls in love.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	promised you a rose garden

**Author's Note:**

> named after a lyric from Rose Garden. I listened to K.D. Lang's cover of that song a lot while writing this haha. 
> 
> I also haven't spellchecked or grammar checked, again. I'm sorry.

She arrives with the dawn, looking worn and tired but hopeful. And Musica has to bite back a sigh at the knowledge that she’s going to be the one fulfilling those hopes.

(It’s almost been a full hundred fifty years since the last person came around, after all. Musica has almost gotten _used_ to the quiet.)

Musica carefully scratches her talons against the wood, strips down the maze of illusions, and unfurls her wings. They’re at the bottom of the World Tree, in the Root of Mirrors, where everything repeats and reflects, and Musica can see from every angle how the woman stiffens. Then drops to her knees.

Oh, at least this one knows the traditions, however unnecessary they might be.

“I, Iris Ianius, have traveled the ocean and the land, have come from the Libellua Rainforests to reach you. Queen of the sky, Painter of legends, will you draw my a wish?”

Ah, never mind. Musica prefers them polite as to rude and entitled, but the full formalities...they’re awkward, cumbersome, unnecessary. It’s not as though Musica could decline, anyway.

Still, the spirit is nice.

“What do you want?” Musica responds, a bit bland.

Iris startles, quite obviously, and looks a bit unsure. Off-balance. “...What?”

“I’m _asking_ ,” Musica says, a bit slower this time, “what you want.”

Iris flinches, just a bit. Using that kind of tone was probably a bit mean, but Musica doesn’t want visitors in the first place. And besides, it won’t affect the nature of this interaction.

“Oh,” Iris says, “no—price?”

“Well you’re already here, aren’t you?” Musica responds, but Iris still looks lost. Does she really not—? Alright. Perhaps Musica is being too cryptic. She wouldn’t know. It’s been around a millennia since she’s had a proper conversation, after all. “I mean to say, you’ve already fulfilled every requirement by _getting_ here. Just say what you want me to paint.”

“Oh,” Iris says, again, “I—my little sister. The Human Empire tore them off both of us.”

Musica blinks once, then twice. Looks at Iris closer. Oh. With the woman’s short stature and four human-shaped limbs Musica had assumed her as human. But on closer look, Iris has larger eyes than any normal human, and thinner limbs, and scales beneath the torn fabric of her shirt, and her hair has that metallic sheen that usually belongs to libellua. But she doesn’t have wings.

 _She doesn't have wings_.

“Humans tore your wings off?” Musica asks, tone steady, though she doesn't feel it. She knows these things happen, of course, because the species are like squabbling ant colonies and they’ve never ceased their warring through the ages. It’s just...different, to see it herself, and her wings itch almost unbearably on her back.

Musica’s wings are a different than Iris’s would be, of course. Because Musica's are large and feathered, modeled like a bird’s, whereas libellua wings are thin and tough, akin to that of a dragon fly.

Musica thinks she might just go insane if someone took flight from her.

“Yeah,” Iris says.

“Okay,” Musica says, “what will you have me paint?”

A weapon, probably. Something to reign hell on humanity. It’s always something like that. And that’s not even her cynicism speaking.

“A set of wings,” Iris says, and Musica stills. “For my little sister.”

A set of wings.

Musica could paint anything at all into existence; could ink a gourd of limitless food, could design a sword that always cuts, could paint armor that never breaks, and this mortal wants a _set of wings for her sister_.

“A set of wings?” Musica asks, “Do they drip in poison? Summon gales?”

Iris shakes her head. “No just—normal wings. Hers used to be colored shades of blue.”

She kind of wants to cry. That must be the most lovely wish she’s ever had to paint.

But Iris apparently takes her silence as something negative, and she’s started going tense, edges hardening.

“Of course,” Musica forces, “I’ll—do that. It’ll be done in three days. Come over here.”

Iris looks surprised again, but steps forward. Musica unfolds from her perch, wraps her arms around the woman, and launches them both up from the roots and flies them to the upper canopy.

-

The World Tree’s upper canopy is a vast, expansive, beautiful place. Musica likes sitting there, sometimes, observing the butterflies and birds that flit about. Many things live here, and so does Musica. Specifically in the Heart—an area of dense foliage towards the center. The branches have been melded into hallways, shaped into rooms, and her painting room is the largest and most groomed of them all.

It’s the second day of painting. She’s been working on the wings this whole time. It’s such a kind wish, after all, and Musica will pour everything she has into painting them sturdy and beautiful.

She is getting tired, though. Her hand hurts. She isn’t mortal, but she does tire.

Musica pauses. Breathes in, breathes out. The air tastes like wood and leaves and paint.

 _The possibility of making a mistake_ , she decides, _outweighs the extra productivity of staying like this_.

Hmm. Alright. So sleep, and checking in with Iris. The World Tree is...not exactly a friendly place for most people, after all. It’s a maze of spells, a minefield of magic, and Musica will not allow Iris to get caught up in it.

She finds her in the painting labyrinth.

Iris is wandering the twisting hallways and open rooms of paintings just...looking, and Musica isn’t really sure what to feel about that. No one ever looks at her private paintings.

She shifts, leans a hand against the cut-wood wall. It’s always awkward to move around in here. She isn’t made for walking, isn’t made for enclosed spaces, really. Her legs are _bird_ legs, from the knee down, and that doesn’t lend well to ground movement.

“Hey,” she says.

Iris whips around, tensing, then relaxing, then tensing again. Opens her mouth, closes it, glances around, opens her mouth again, “Uh.”

A beat.

Musica doesn’t really know what to say. Their previous interaction—that was easy, that was formula. It’s a simple flow: ask for the wish, get the wish, fly to canopy. This is not that.

She searches for words. “You...like it in here?”

“Err,” Iris says, and glances back at the paintings. “Yeah. These are...yours?”

“I made them.”

Iris nods uncertainly, almost brushes her fingers across a painting of a chalice. “Are these from—?”

“No,” Musica says, quickly, because they aren’t like the paintings made for wishes. These are hers, for _herself_ , and there’s not a whole lot she does for herself, but this is one of them. “these are just because I wanted to. Not copies of paintings for other wishers. I do genuinely like painting, you know.”

“Oh,” Iris says, and shifts a bit, looks a little unsure. “I like them.”

Musica deflates. “Oh,” she says, “thanks. Not many people see them.”

Iris frowns. It’s almost hard to make out in the burnt yellow light of this wooden labyrinth. Glowing stone is embedded in the walls, though, and it a lot of light, but it makes everything bright enough. “Most people don’t care?”

“Yeah,” Musica says. “It doesn't have to do with their wishes. So.”

“Huh,” Iris says, “what assholes. These are gorgeous.”

Musica’s chest clenches, flutters a bit. Feels _warm_. “It’s rational,” she says, and isn’t quite sure what she’s defending. “It makes sense. It isn’t relevant to them.”

Iris huffs, squares her shoulders. “Whatever. Doesn't mean they aren’t missing out. Since these are nice.”

Musica feels even warmer. She’d forgotten that was possible. _You’re nicer_ , she wants to say, _you’re prettier than any painting_. And she _is_ , with her bob of chocolate curls and soft brown eyes and olive skin. With her autumn orange-scales and sharp features. With her _words_.

 _You’re prettier_ , she thinks, again, but it comes out as a dry, “You flatter.”

-

One day, a few hours of sleep, and many paint strokes later, and the wings are done.

They’re a delicate balance of blues, with shades of gold coloring the delicate chitin. The wings are still in paint, now, but all Musica has to do is will them off the canvas.

“Would you like to carry the canvas or carry the wings?” Musica asks. “If you carry the canvas then they will come off the page when your sister touches it.”

Iris nods, looking at the canvas almost reverently. Her fingers twitch. “Will they break, if they come out now…?”

“You’ll need to carry them more carefully,” Musica says, “but they’ll be lighter. And I’ve made them sturdy, strong. I hardly think you’ll be bashing them with hammers.”

“Okay,” Iris says, “then...now.”

A moment, and the wings pull themselves right off the canvas. No longer made of paint, but of membrane and chitin. They sparkle blue and gold. Musica wraps them up carefully in silk and Iris takes them with a tenderness she hasn’t shown before.

“So,” Musica says, after a moment. “From here you’ll...?”

“I’m going to my sister first,” Iris says, “then it’s back to war. Revolution. You know.”

She didn’t know. That’s news. The air feels cold, chilly, even though that makes no sense at all; the World Tree is a warm place. “Oh,” Musica says, and thinks _you don’t have wings._

“We think there’ll be a breakthrough soon,” Iris says.

 _She’s_ _at war_ , Musica thinks, _people die, and she’s at war. And she doesn't have wings_.

People like them, with wings...they’re not _meant_ for the ground. Iris is better at walking than her, sure, but most things are. That doesn't mean Iris is _built_ for it. Her limbs are too thin, bone structure built too fragile, movements too awkward.

Musica can paint one wish, but only one; that’s the way this goes. But there’s a nervous ache in her stomach, and goosebumps on her skin, and oh, she’s _worried_.

“You’ll be alright?” Musica asks.

Iris laughs. “Well I’ll try.”

That doesn't sound good.

And Musica can paint only one wish, but—

but she can give gifts freely.

“Hey,” she says, “stay a bit?”

Iris stills, narrows her eyes. She bares her teeth. It’s an angry, defensive reaction, and Musica is lost. “You said there was no price.”

Oh. That’s what this is about. That’s—sad. God, that’s so sad. It makes her chest ache, makes her angry at the world, because Iris is the first person that’s cared about any part of _her_ in a millennia, and this is what life has done to her. Ripped off her wings and taken her trust.

“Calm down,” Musica says, “that isn’t it.”

“Then what is it?” Iris says, and doesn't calm down.

She breathes in, breathes out—leaves and wood and flowery fragrance. They’re still in the canopy, beneath the dawn. It falls pink on her toffee skin, turns her silver-black wings shades of rose. How, she wonders, would Iris look in the dawn, with her wings? Libellua have wings like dragon flies, like stained glass, and she’s sure they’d look lovely in the dawn.

“I’m going to paint you wings,” she says.

“But it’s only one wish.”

“As a gift.”

Iris actually startles back. “You’ve—never done that before.”

“But I can,” Musica says.

“Oh,” Iris says. “Oh—okay. Really? You mean it?”

“Completely,” Musica confirms, and Iris kind of—loosens, softens, relaxes. And she looks gorgeous like that, with the sun shading her hair shades of caramel and honey, with her expression all hopeful, and oh, she’s _smiling_.

 _How_ , Musica wonders, _can I possibly make wings beautiful enough to match?_

-

The answer is no. She can’t. It’s impossible. This is her third scrapped canvas.

The first painting was deep blue and gold—like the sister’s. It didn’t look right. The second was shades of green and icy blue. It fit even worse. This one is royal purple and deep blue. She thought it looked lovely until she saw Iris again, compared their beauty, and the wings paled in comparison.

They just don’t—fit. Maybe it’s the shape. Maybe it’s the colors. But they don’t _fit_.

She has a vague idea of what she wants, of course. Cool colors, something sharp and strong to match Iris’s will. Something full of life. _Something_.

It’s been centuries sine Musica last had such difficulty capturing something. She’s painted thousands of wings, thousands of woman, has painted ever color in the world, this shouldn’t be so _difficult_.

It is anyway, of course, because when Iris smiles she feels a bit breathless.

“Hey are you—” and Musica startles bad enough to fall off her perch. Iris blinks at her. Musica blinks back. She shakes her head a bit, pulls herself up, fluffs out her feathers. They’re kind of ruffled. “...okay?” Iris finishes.

“Yes,” Musica says.

Iris looks doubtful. How affronting.

“...Sure.” Iris says, frown a bit, then, “but are you _really_ sure? I haven't seen you sleep. Or eat. Do you need to do those things?”

“Well I don’t _need_ to,” Musica says, and tries not to shift on her feet. That wouldn’t go well. It’s hard enough to stand with bird legs already. Iris stares. “...Technically.”

“You should take a break,” Iris says. “I uh—made lunch? I found a kitchen. It’s nothing special, just fruit salad, but—”

“I don’t mind,” Musica says, and tries not to feel so off-balance and weightless, “that’s good. Now?”

Iris gives her another smile. “Yeah. Thank you.”

-

It’s beneath the noon sun, among the butteries and treetop-flowers that Musica has a breakthrough.

 _Warm_ , she thinks _, warm, warm, warm_.

The light is warm on her skin, and her chest is warm enough to melt, and Iris smiles a bit like the sun. And Musica had thought _cool colors_ , because those are sharp and strong, and Iris got here all on her own, and is fighting a revolution, but perhaps cool wasn’t quite the right palate.

 _Warm_ , Musica thinks, _reds and golds and oranges._

“You’re like dawn,” she says, abruptly, and Iris furrows her brows. “Or the sun. I think you’re blinding me.”

“What?” Iris says, and right. That probably didn’t make much sense. It doesn't make much sense to Musica, either, in all honesty.

“I need to go paint you wings,” Musica says, and swallows down the rest of her fruit. “Thank for the meal. It was—good. Painting now.”

From there it’s a bit of a race back to canvas. Inspiration is a fickle mistress, after all, and there’s an image in her head; a palate of colors, a pattern of membrane, and shape of design. And it simultaneously consumes her every thought and feels slippery as sand between her fingers.

 _I have to catch this_ , Musica thinks, and picks up her brush.

The membrane is colored amber and fall-red, melded into each other, mixed and gorgeous. The chitin is placed thin and sturdy, shades of gold and pink. They’re regal wings, beautiful ones, painted like autumn, and Musica lets her own heart fall into their image.

And somewhere towards the end, when she’s laying down the last shades, checking over the structure, Musica realizes that oh, Iris fell _her_ into autumn. Iris makes her head flood with color, makes her heart fall into something unfamiliar.

Musica stills, fluffs up her wings. She doesn't know how long she’s been here, doesn't know if it’s been hours or days, but she knows that sometime along the way Iris joined her.

“I’m done,” she says, and turns around.

Iris looks something between pinched and devoted. What’s that supposed to mean?

“Do you like them?” Musica asks, and tries not to sound too nervous.

A beat.

“I love them,” Iris says, sounding honest, “they’re gorgeous.”

There’s a swelling bloom in her chest that’s hard to ignore. “Can I put them on you?”

“Sure,” Iris says, but frowns, just a little. “But aren’t you tired?”

 _I can’t be tired with you around_ , Musica wants to say, _I can’t be tired when there’s a chorus of bees in my stomach_. But instead she just says: “No.”

“Okay,” Iris says, and bares her back.

Musica wills the wings comes off their canvas. They’re real and solid in her hands. They won’t be quite right until she lets them claim their place on Iris’s back, though.

Iris’s back is a scarred thing, and Musica can _see_ where the wings were ripped off. There are scales running along her sides, around her neck, covering all the most vital places. They’re smooth, cool to the touch, and Musica tries not to let her fingers linger.

The wings meld into place easily. This is what they were made for, after all. Musica steps back. “Can you feel them?”

Iris’s wings flutter, buzz, and Musica can’t see her face, but she makes a small, choked sound. _Yes_.

A beat.

“So I guess you’re leaving,” Musica says, and ignores how cold her skin feels.

“Yeah,” Iris says, “what about you?”

“I’m staying here,” Musica says, and bites back the _obviously_. She isn’t actually angry, just a bit aching.

Iris is silent for a moment. She turns around, brows furrowed, biting on her lips, expression contemplating. “Can you...leave?”

“No,” Musica says, “I have to be here, for when someone has a wish.” Because that’s how this _goes_. That’s the reason she exists at all.

“But people aren’t always here to wish,” Iris says, “surely you can leave when you aren’t required.”

“I—” _cannot_ , Musica says, but she’s spent millennia in the World Tree and attempted to step beyond its boundaries. She knows what happened to her predecessors, after all. ( _Erased_ , because they denied a wish, or missed a wish, or went against the will of the world, and Musica’s existence may be a bit miserable, but she prefers it to _nothing_.)

“You haven’t tried,” Iris says, and Musica _wants_.

“I haven’t tried,” she says, and _aches_. “I can try.”

Iris smiles brilliantly. It’s her, this time, that takes Musica’s hand and flies them out of the canopy and down to the ground. They touch down on the edge of a root.

Iris steps back, steps onto the ground, and Musica—

steps forward, feels the sun on her skin, feels the ground beneath her feet, and Iris’s hand in hers, and _smiles_.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. This was strange to write. First time writing an original story in like, a year or more? The last time was for ELA, so it only kind of counts. If we exclude school projects then this is my first complete original story like, ever haha.
> 
> It’s different, working with original characters. With writing fanfic you have both a lot of breathing room and a solid base to work on. I hope these character didn’t feel too bland?  
> The pacing also felt kind of wack. And everything felt a bit melodramatic? Ah, well. Hopefully the story flow wasn’t too awkward?
> 
> This was written I preparation for NaNoWriMo, which I’m doing this year. I felt like I should test the waters with writing OG stuff before diving into a whole 50k manuscript lol. A lot of you prolly came from my fanfic, nanowrimo means I probably won’t be posting much fanfic till November is over, bar perhaps some drabbles. Sorry!
> 
> Anyway, this is getting a bit rambly. As always, if you enjoyed please don’t hesitate to leave a comment. I always love reading them, and feedback and constructive criticism is,per usual, welcome :)


End file.
